The Great Sundering
Hi. Thank you for your kind comments. Thanks Hobbes for the thumb's up. It's great to hear that people other than my players enjoy the story. The next excerpt should be read with the healthy dose of bollywood melodrama.
-To Sunder a Ksatriya-
Putra Suryavharman paced to and fro in his cell, spewing curses and oaths that were unintelligible to those around him. Vagrants, vagabonds, ruffians, traitors and other undesirables of the Sultanate of Al Akhbar who had the unfortunate circumstance of sharing the cell with him regarded the unarmed warrior with wariness similar to that of a pack of jackals regarding a lion.
They were either a pitiful or pathetic lot. That choice based solely on one’s view of the world. Clad in rags that reeked of urine and dried excrement, they melted under the blazing heat of the desert sun and cried out feebly for their loved ones to save them from their incarceration. Many would die here without mourners. No lips shall issue forth prayers that would shepherd their journey from this world to the next. Till their imminent passing, passive existence was prolonged suffering and the pain of death- sweet orgasmic release. Down here, the dignity of life was truly without meaning.
The infernal heat made Putra’s head dizzy. Already, his heart quaked in violent palpitations laced with rage at his ill-treatment. His thoughts, colored by the madness of his anger swam with murderous intent. Knuckles white with tension, Putra struggled with his inner demons that once plagued his youth and in a bid to control his fury, he directed his thoughts to the sacred Vedic texts that guided his new life.
“To be influential in battle, unconquerable, patient, challenging and charitable, to control the bodily necessities, to be forgiving, to be attached to the brahminical nature and to be always jolly and truthful--these are the symptoms of the ksatriya."
(SB 7.11.22)
Having barely mastered himself for a moment, he leaned against the wall that was carpeted with cracks and graffiti. Succumbing to his weakness and he felt his body lethargically slide to the slovenly floor. The ksatriya was tired and thirst drained his strength like a sponge seeping up water. In a distance, he sees a murky puddle of spilled water. To his disgust, it had looked rather tantalizing. But he does not touch it. After all, there were limits to his spiritual concessions.
*Thirst*…..* Resentment *……*Impotency*…* Anxiety* …….*Anger *……*Pride* Thirst* ….*Doubt* ………*Helplessness*… Fear* …….*Indignant*…* Piety* *Loyalty* ………*Fear*………. *Resignation*…… *Sadness *…….*Rage* ………*Thirst*……… *Pity*………...*Resolve *…………*Confusion *……
Like a melting pot, thoughts collided and colluded in his feverish mind. Simmered by the impossible heat, he felt his eyelids grow heavy and the world flickered from black to white and the sound of men and women pleading for release faded to the reverberant sounds of oblivion.
At the pinnacle of worldly suffering, distinction between warrior prince and untouchable ceased to exist.
**
Cool water splashes across Putra’s face and it cascades down his handsome aristocratic features in huge luminous orbs. Putra awoke to see the face of old man whose gentle features were frame by a mellifluous beard and an unmistakable halo of piety. The old man stroked the warrior’s hair in an almost fatherly gesture and feed the dehydrated warrior a bowl of water. Behind him, two familiar faces of Anand Singh and Govindar Dasavataras looked on solemnly.
“The Maharaja is awaits, Putra.”
“Let us go then. How is he?”
“He is not pleased, Putra. I have yet to see him this angry”
“Bring me to him. I am prepared to lose my life.”
“I’m afraid… even that might not be enough.”
**
Putra was brought by his fellow ksatriya to a room where minutes earlier Archon Grey had departed with Consular General Stefan Wolfgang. Inside, the Maharaja Barachan stood with his back to the door. The man carried himself with such bearing that the mountains of homeland prostrated to his magnificent stature. Whilst he was not a handsome man in a traditional sense, he was an exemplar of aristocratic dignity and wore the scars of war as a badge of honor. Like his fellows, he too was ksatriya. He was a paragon of the caste.
On hearing the approach of Putra, he turns to face the errant warrior prince. The movement is poise and impeccable as always and his visage- a mask of impassivity and arrogance like that of a marble statue of Mithra himself. Putra’s heart thumped in his chest and he struggled to even look his lord in the eye. For a ksatriya, that was shame enough. In self-loathing, he hung his head in shame.
“Maharaja… ”
The slap came suddenly like the strike of a cobra. Maharaja Barachan’s palm hung in mid air and Putra fell backwards, clasping his cheek that smarted. The blow would have staggered a lesser shudra but Putra was neither a peasant nor a protector of cows. His injury was trivial but it had cut more deeply than any wound. He felt a choke in his throat and to his humiliation, he felt his eyes water but pride ensured that the unthinkable was abated.
The Maharaja took Putra’s face between his hands, his own eyes were brimming with sorrow.
“Why Putra? Why have you betrayed me?” His melodic voice strained with grief and anguish.
“Maharaja… Please allow me to explain. There were assassins that were headed for the palace and they were headed to kill Piotr the White. I tried…”
“…I treated you like a son, Putra. And you drag my name in the gutter.” The Maharaja stopped to recompose himself. “Is this how you return your elder’s good graces?”
“Please Maharaja, let me finish.” Putra stammered, struggling to find the right words. The right words to defuse the madness that spiraled out of control and threatened to extinguish all that he had ever known.
“Nai*!!! I will hear none of your excuses, ksatriya! I welcomed you to feast in my house. To make war by my side. To counsel me in the affairs of my kingdom. And you reward me with this?”
“Please Maharaja, I beg you, by the sword of Mithra. The boy’s life was in danger and I could not let him die.”
“You cannot let him die? And why not? We are here in a foreign land, as guests of the Sultan and you deign to break his laws for a boy you don’t even know? What demon possessed you?” The Maharaja was livid. “The boy, Piotr, he is an untouchable yes?”
“Yes, your highness.” Putra wished that he could find some hole to hide in. “He is.”
“Very well then, since you enjoy the company of the untouchables, you shall wallow in the ditch just like them. You ingrate! You useless mongrel!
You…you… you are not my son.”
The Maharaja’s words spewed out of his mouth in a reckless fit of anger and for a moment, both adopted father and son could not believe the significance of the statement and the hurt that came with it. The feeling of emptiness would cause both many a restless night still to come.
“Ah Pa… ” Putra’s cry was plaintiff.
“Nai… I am not your father! You are not my son. Get out! Get out of my house!”
Putra could only turn his head away in the grief that tore at his chest.
“Since you do not wish to uphold the duties of a ksatriya, a warrior prince….”
“Please Maharaja no. No more.”
“In my eyes, you are no longer a ksatriya. Maybe you will be happier now that you can go gallivanting with your friends. You are not ksatriya. You hear? You are not a ksatriya!!!”
The cry of anguish that followed was similar to that of the death cries of an old lion as he is consumed by a pack of jackals. If pity dwelled in a heart of a man, he would have put the animal out of its misery.
In desperation, Govindar Dasavatarasm, the ksatriya who fought the War of Jahal against with Putra against the Yuan Ti tried to intercede in his behalf.
“Maharaja… I implore you, please stop this.”
“Noooo!!!”
“Let me take his place. He is more worthy to stay by your side than myself. I beg you.”
“Naiii! I swear before by the name of my ancestors that I would die before I take in that cowardly viper!”
Tears streamed down Putra Suryavharman’s eyes now freely. He was beyond consolation. Life ceased to quantify to anything more than breathing and existing.
Anand Singh rushed to his side and the giant man whispered gently,
“Go first brother. You know that it is impossible to speak with him when he is like this.”
Putra looked up to see the Maharaja standing with his back to him as he was once before.
Breathless with despair, he drinks in the sight of the man who had raised him for much of his life, turns and leaves weeping, oblivious to the tears that cascaded down the Maharaja’s own.
At the pinnacle of worldly suffering, distinction between warrior prince and untouchable again ceased to exist.
